This photograph awakens a feeling of freedom in me, accompanied by the inhalation of fragrances and the taste of foreign flavours.
In my case, it transports me to where everything could be totally unfamiliar, to the unknown, since I am not familiar with Istanbul. This picture represents the night.
Beautiful life in a festive, semi-dark atmosphere, where one dines abundantly in nice fancy restaurants. I have been on day parole for three months. For me, this picture represents what is “yet to come”!

Questions¶

Holding my fork incorrectly, in a chow hall, I realize, I am in prison. Improper etiquette…expected, improper social etiquette…apoplectic. Chaos rejected, volatility accepted…any questions?

I further realize, I have extra-natural reflective powers. I can escape through taste or through a face of a picture of a love one, mirrored, in another time &space. Shhhh…don’t ask any questions. Yes! Fear has a distinct taste. Different in any specific place. East, West, right, left, ultimately it always stays fresh. But, the after taste is succinct. Sweetly vile, sourly mild. A spicy stew of emotions and thought…Wow; you have another question?
Oh! I can’t call? I must call! My daughter is suppose to be the queen of the ball. No! This is not small. I am in prison…I’m missing it all! See, if I miss my call, my daughter will bawl, which will cause me to search for someone to brawl. ANY QUESTIONS!!

No! My life is foreign. At times it seems to be from elsewhere. Yes! It has a newness, but more like; my mind being inserted into an Alien’s body or sometimes an alien mind &My Mind being stuffed into my own body. It taste…familiarly, odd? The taste of… others? Oh, now you don’t have any questions?!

Imprisoned, noise, padlocks, doors, I am in a basement
When they come, screams that bring death can be heard. Rotten food, rats bring meat and bread to me.
Someone arrived and said: Come close to the entrance, they want to talk to you.

Hello son, I am a priest, I have a minute to talk to you. Tell me who you are and how you got here.

Name Gumt, 65, married, anthropologist, Saudi. I took a Paris-Turkey commercial flight, visited a friend in Istanbul, went to a mosque and returned with my family. During the flight, they warned us of an emergency. They did not say what kind. The landing in Turkey was fine.

When I ran off the plane, several agents gunned me down, immobilized my hands and feet, and blindfolded me. At that moment, I saw and heard the plane burst into flames. Someone there said, “Son of a bitch, did you see what you’ve done?” I was beaten to a pulp and heavily interrogated. Beatings to the point of losing consciousness. I woke up, we were driving, after several hours we arrived at this place. What is your last wish? Freedom, I am already dead.

The guard said: Finished And then shot me.

This photograph takes me back to when I was a young boy with so many expectations. Now I cannot even enjoy the smell and taste of food, only the smell of freedom. I sometimes see my shadow reflected in the window pane and magically find myself immersed in a city that’s illuminated and festive But it only lasts a few minutes, during which I feel free and happy I am behind bars, after all __

Read the original version (in Italian)

So this is freedom, in beautiful Istanbul,
It’s amazing from where I am sitting,
Darkness slowly has descended,
Lights from the city, reflect on the water below.

From this restaurant high above the city,
The aromatic odours are so enticing,
Playing with my taste buds and making
My mouth water.

I will make sure, I will never forget
This view, or the wonderful food, all
Is etched into my mind,
Now life begins…

Crossing the great bridge, on the other side, I can see the two most important mosques in Istanbul, the Blue Mosque and LE EVES, and this image is spectacular. The message I interpret is incredible because, regarding taste, there are many sensations that awaken within me when I see the kitchen in full swing. On the other hand, what can be observed of the city are the tasty delights that Turkish cuisine offers, with a wide variety of vegetables. This great Turkish city awakens my palate with delicious flavours…

I highlight all my tastes in here, in the best possible way. Because even in this place, there are foods that I still eat that I used to have with my children and wife. That is why when I prepare them, I try to make them taste as similar as possible. What is the point? So that when I eat, I feel close to them, transporting myself to the dining room of my home through my taste memory. It is a very nice feeling that is not limited to just one meal. My mate tastes the same as the one my wife has at home. Taste is essential in my life, just like the sense of smell or touch…

It is indeed splendid to see a big city at night under its lights; it projects a multicoloured panorama in constant movement and shows us a range of colours. Busy roads can be compared to large blood vessels flowing in all directions.

It’s much more beautiful, watching it from above and at night, than early mornings before going to work with the presence of thick and cold fog. This kind of picture reminds you of what deprivation of freedom really means. To do all you can to find freedom again and walk away through the big gate: this is one thing that reignites the desire to work and try to be reintegrated and have a normal life.

Life in prison is difficult. Sometimes, I feel like giving in to anger and violence; however, these desires are quickly subdued because I always look forward to freedom and do not want to create more problems for myself.

I redeveloped an interest in studying and little pleasures: the least positive experience gives me great satisfaction.

For example, receiving the meals we ordered gives me a moment of pleasure; when I used to shop freely for myself, I thought it was a banal and almost boring activity, whereas now, when I receive my orders, it gives me pleasure I would never have felt as a free man. This explains the fact that happiness adapts to every situation and is based on the conditions in which we find ourselves. Everything becomes relative.

Activities such as reading and theatre, which I stopped practicing, regained a predominant place in my life because here, to maintain good morale, taste becomes essential: it becomes necessary to regain interests. Now when I think of what life would be for me after my release, I see things differently compared to who I was before imprisonment. I see exactly the opposite of who I used to be. Of course, I am aware that no one can really define what the future holds; however, we can still help shape it to be the best it can be.

And here again is my impression of this wonderful picture, a little word from me. So, I hope to hear from you soon and receive another beautiful picture.

Lord, what am I doing here? I want to go home, to my family, to my loved ones. After all, life is fleeting and nowhere will be as good as at home. Right, I’ve decided, I’ll finish my affairs and get straight on the plane.

–

Read the original version (russian)

It was raining heavily while, lying in bed, I contemplated the image. The window was open and the humidity was constant and insolent and, as a silent dare, I cooled my feet. Faced with the inability to stop thinking, I have decided to stand up to the thoughts and, again, I saw myself in a soliloquy that even I did not understand.

I cannot put into words how I feel, I suppose it is because of this emptiness that occupies everything, that leaves me speechless before my notebook.

The image of the city is like my memory; there are dark, blurred, almost intangible places and, on the other hand, there are memories that, although distant, are still illuminated, memories as alive and as present as you, like me.
I contemplate that city from the distance that separates me from the world, from the top of my tower where I live this “abduction.” But, although they have separated me from the world, nothing and no one can take me away from what is intrinsically mine, my memories.

I have thought of it, as usual, glimpsing at it small and fragile, curled up in the clews of its skin, striving to feed an almost dead hope. And, in my confused visions, the memory becomes blurred, the lights go out and I can hardly remember the touch of those hands that so often rocked me in the sad afternoons of my adolescence. The smell of their skin, their innate perfume, the essence of lavender worn daily. Even after so much time, my palate can taste the flavours of their stews and delight my senses. And then there are moments that time cannot erase, there are memories that appear dark on the horizon, but there are others that will continue to shine despite the years passing.

The image and text contrast radically with the experiences we live from within a prison. Jail is a place to live during a few or many years, but the detained person cannot make their own decisions. It is indeed not meant to make one feel free. We must be subject to strict standards and, according to the abilities of each person, then it is possible to build scenarios that, even if only within our internal jurisdiction, lets us breathe freedom.

We suffer a kind of atrophy, due to the eating habits imposed on us. But there is a glimmer of hope when, for example, on weekends when family members visit us, they are allowed to bring us homemade meals.

Like a momentary escape, the surprise of a tasty mouthful that transports us far away, a flavour that revives memories, images, and feelings. A Proustian madeleine that most often takes on the appearance of a Mediterranean or Provençal dish, a dish from that family tanned by the sun, that lets you feel the warmth on your head and in your heart. Tasting that is like tasting that distant freedom, roaming outside the walls and feeling like a child once again.
It’s like a bandage for that other, more frequent taste, the taste of tears.

A blackened city and lights atop the mosques.
A cityscape at night filled with the aroma, the veritable stench of sin.
Lured not at all by thoughts of sweetened pastry or eastern spices I dwell instead on another kind of ‘taste’ entirely…
Stained by wine and cherry’s juice, paired lips brush then overflow as honeyed breath scented by coffee saturates the air and clings like melting toffee to every plane and surface.
Perspiration sloughs and drips off skin like salted manna to fall within gasping open mouths hungry for the sting and bite.
Tenderised shoulders, kneaded back, roasting skins… unholy rites of the night dusted with the flavour of lust and accented by the slip and curl of wonton tongue, bathed in cognac.
Or else, perhaps, by the sour lemon tang and meaty spill of bitten fingers roughened by calluses, sun burn, bite marks.
Rich and sensuous, the bodies of two are creamed and melded ’til they froth and overflow, sizzling in the dusk, grilled by their own fears and desire.
Fulsome, the ‘flavour’ tingles on my taste buds, the memories as sumptuous and alcoholic as mulled wine or butterscotch pudding laced with bourbon.
That is the ‘taste’ I see in the night.
That is what is served tonight.
Ha! Flavours of others indeed…

Hotel Marmara¶

In a few short months I shall be 40 years old. Seemingly a lifetime away from where I dwell time seems to stand still. The windows I am able to stare out of only allow me the horrific sight of barbed wire fence and miles of mountains. For nearly all prisons reside deep in the mountain tops. When night descends upon this country of captured men and women I ponder of the many birthdays I have spent locked away from my children, lost in captivity.
Celebration at a distance. No photos taken, no fleeting beauty, nothing but the bitter taste of separation. The prayer rug inside my cell adorns a mosque, the colors are as beautiful as the setting of the sun. It is when I close my eyes that I taste something different. I taste another life, I taste freedom!

Trapped in a foreign land, gun towers overlook the premises. When trapped here you are desensitized. You hear little, speak less, see nothing, lose touch and taste death.

Thus, this image along with the rest is seen, heard, felt and tasted, yet reminds me of all I’ve lost. Nothing here is pleasant. When the East and the West mix it is not to tease one’s taste buds, but two different geographical groups clashing like of the Titans. I’m sorry but what I am fed is almost always done with force as my reality is as bitter as it gets.